


here take my heart (it’s beating for you anyway.)

by orphan_account



Series: ateez/tmi au [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mentions of Blood, mentions of a blowjob but no actual blow job, the vamp san fic i didn’t shut the fuck up about, warlock!seonghwa, warlock!yeosang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 22:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18765811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I’ve made Yeosang’s mundane into a monster,” the vampire had said. His vision had been blurring then, and he’d thought that he was going to die. “I’m sure he’d love you a lot less now.”





	here take my heart (it’s beating for you anyway.)

In May of 1969, when the countrymen delve into the finer pleasures of life, wasting their money on strippers and cash and sex with paid whores in indecent places, San opens his eyes in a coffin, six feet under the ground.

 

The first thing he registers is the blistering cold. It feels like there’s a thin sheet of ice across his skin, spread along and frozen so no air can touch him. His lips feel like they’ve been numbed out by diamonds in a winter storm. He’s always been a warm person — Yeosang likes to say that he’s sunny in a tropical kind of way, even of the two of them live in the tiny, rat-filled apartment block in the ugliest place in Manhattan and have never been to a tropical country.

 

The next thing he registers is the blood running down his neck, cold, sickly and clotted as if it’s been there for a while.

 

And then, the sharp sensation of the cold blood forces him to remember.

 

The icy hands at his wrist, pulling him into the abandoned street while he begged them to let him go. The sharp teeth grazing against his bare shoulders, the sickly smile he’d gotten when he screamed for help. The smudged lipstick marks at his cheek where the vampire had kissed him and said, _you’ll be okay, it’ll all be over soon, just close your eyes_. The searing of flesh when they sank their teeth into his neck and licked the wound close.

 

“I’ve made Yeosang’s mundane into a _monster_ ,” the vampire had said. His vision had been blurring then, and he’d thought that he was going to die. “I’m sure he’d love you a lot less now.”

 

He remembers shutting his eyes, thinking you know nothing about him and _you know nothing about me_ , and the next time he opened them, he’s in a coffin.

 

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, leaning back against the hardwood of the coffin, eyes flickering shut in the darkness, _that doesn’t look very good for me._

 

He thinks he could stay in here for a while, but that’d mean dying and he really doesn’t want to die, even if it means he has to live on as a vampire (or one of those freaky vampire slaves, he’s not sure which he is). He hasn’t even told Yeosang about the drive-in theatre or the new drink he invented at the bar the other day or even had sex with him in a place that wasn’t horribly inappropriate. He hasn’t even gotten paid this month, nor has he gone to see the sea.

 

A few nights ago he’d almost told Yeosang that he loved him but then ended up biting his tongue so hard that it bled, and he remembers now, with the cold walls of the coffin caving in around him, that Yeosang had smiled when he’d asked him if he’d like to talk about it later.

 

He doesn’t remember wrenching the door to the coffin open and flinging himself upwards so he was standing, doesn’t remember clawing at the dirt until he felt his hand break the surface, and he doesn’t remember anything until he’s standing waist deep in his own grave with blood and dirt on his entire body, pale as the moonlight and sharp as a blade.

 

There’s a man standing a fair distance away from the grave, far enough that he isn’t in immediate danger but close enough that his face is discernible. His eyes are the color of sunflowers in summer, bright and warm like flickering lanterns. Behind him, there’s a sign that reads, the NY Consulate of Shadowhunters.

 

“Took you long enough,” the man says, and it’s only then that San realizes that he’s not a man at all — he’s a warlock, just like Yeosang is. He helps San out of his grave. “I was beginning to think you’d died.”

 

“Had a lot to think about,” San’s voice comes out rough, chalky and hoarse, like it’s slowly dying in his voicebox and he can’t help it. The warlock steadies him on his feet.

 

“You can tell me all about it on the way out of here,” his eyes flicker to the side, and that’s when San notices the cluster of people, white faced and panicked, watching him. “Whoever your sire is, they must really hate you, burying you on hunter ground like that.”

 

 _I’ve turned Yeosang’s mundane into a monster. I’m sure he’d love you a lot less now_.

 

“You have no idea,” San murmurs, less to the warlock and more to himself, and shuts his eyes when he realizes that the puncture wound is open again, dripping cold, dead blood onto the skin of his collarbones.

 

_______

 

The warlock’s name is Seonghwa, he’s three hundred and fifty years old and has an unnecessarily nice house with demon ichor on the floorboards, and he says that he won’t tell Yeosang he’s found San until San is ready to see him.

 

Which, in hindsight, is a really good idea, because the first three nights he spends coming to terms with the fact that he’s a vampire is pretty much just him vomiting periodically and then choking when he accidentally drank too much blood and then crying at the knowledge that he won’t ever be able to step foot in the sun again.

 

“You should have just stabbed me with a silver stake and left me to die,” San says, after one horrible episode of such. He’d thought he could do this, thought he could live on and adapt in this foreign body where his heart is still and yet his blood rushes like a dam every other day, but every moment that he finds himself weakened by his desire for blood is a moment he wishes he hadn’t.

 

“Silver kills werewolves,” Seonghwa says, off-handedly. He’s quite a busy warlock, always summoning demons left and right, having consultations in the living room while San slept in the spare room during the day, and yet he permanently has glitter around him like a Korean Madonna, and San isn’t sure whether he can’t stand him or if he likes him. “If I were to kill you, I would have to throw you into holy water or lock you into God’s house until you burned to ashes.”

 

“Flattering,” San says, dryly, and takes a gulp from the blood bottle. (It’s cow’s blood today.) He hasn’t slept at all and everything hurts. “This sucks.”

 

Seonghwa empties out his champagne glass, and with fills it again with a snap of his fingers. He’s got the champagne flute in one hand and a dying cigarette in the other.

 

“You’re dead, of course it sucks,” he says, tone as flat as ice. He flicks his dark hair out of his eyes. “And even if you ask, I wouldn’t kill you. Yeosang would kill me if I killed you, even if it was on your wishes.”

 

Yeosang. San hasn’t seen him since he got Turned, and honestly, he’s a little afraid to.

 

“I know you’re worried,” Seonghwa continues, and the way his golden eyes flicker to San’s tells him that he knows what he’s talking about. “You think he won’t love you anymore because you’re a vampire and you’re afraid to see the look on his face when you tell him you’re undead. But you dug yourself up from that grave because you thought of him, so at least make an effort.”

 

Blood doesn’t taste foreign to him anymore. It’s much like the store brought cherries he liked to eat before he got Turned, or the sharp, fizzling sour cranberry drinks he’d had a hard time saying no to at the bar.

 

“Fine,” he tells Seonghwa, and then rolls over and pulls the blanket over his head. Seonghwa sighs, but he shuts the windows and pulls the blinds shut and turns the lights off on his way out of the room.

 

_____

 

(As he often did with most of his inappropriate hookups and occasional boyfriends, San met Yeosang in the bar.

 

Specifically, he met Yeosang in the bar, made small talk for what could either have been four minutes or forty, and then blew him in the cramped bathroom of said horrible bar while the music did a good job of muffling the noises he made.

 

He doesn’t always blow cute guys who obviously aren’t human on the first meeting. Usually he waits long enough to ask them what they are or if he could die if he slept with them, but he’d either been too repressed to care or he’d just been too lonely to ask. It’s not like Yeosang is ugly, anyway. He’s all types of pretty, narrow, cat like eyes the color of the downcast Manhattan sky when it rained. His hair was much like the candy floss they sold in the pier by Santa Monica. San had seen him minding his own business by the bar with a tray of shots in front of him, his eyes flickering different shades of the overhead lights, his fingers curled around the glass while he contemplated it, and amidst the crowd of people, all hot and all equally invested in San, he’d thought, _he’s the one I want_.

 

At first he’d assumed that the bathroom escapede was going to be it, because Yeosang was obviously not looking for trouble and nothing was more troublesome than fucking a mortal. (He’d heard that from one of the regulars. He’s a mortal, he’s not sure.) But somehow, every time they were in the bar at the same time, it’d end with them in a secluded corner, Yeosang’s hands untucking San’s shirt with his lips attached to his neck while San breathily laughed and asked him if he got off on this kind of thing. (From the way his hands slid dangerously close to San’s belt buckle, he absolutely did.)

 

Sometimes they just talked, trading drinks and stories. Yeosang is a warlock, which is why his eyes are completely opaque. When San asks him what being a warlock is like, he says that it’s just a lot of pentagrams and demon ichor, and immortality. His favorite color is blue and he likes drinking and partying because according to him, immortality didn’t mean much if he lived a boring life.

 

In return, San the Mortal told him about his boring mythology classes and his general distaste for people who didn’t know the difference between acrylics and wax work, and for some reason, Yeosang hung onto every word like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

 

And somehow, even after they started dating, inappropriate semi public sex aside, San still found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that Yeosang likes his stupid, mundane self.)

____

 

On the first day of June, there’s the sound of Seonghwa’s door being thrown off its hinges, a blast of white light that has the cat hissing and curling into itself, and then the sound of familiar footsteps.

 

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa greets, barely looking up from the spellbook as he stands to block the doorway. San feels the familiar sense of dread take over his entire being. Had he had a heart, it would have crawled out of his mouth by now. “As much as I love unnecessary displays of power, you’re fixing my door and apologizing to French Toast.”

 

“I don’t _care_ about your door, or your stupid cat,” comes Yeosang’s cutting voice, and San burrows further into his nest of blankets. He hasn’t even thought of what he’s going to say to Yeosang after dropping off the face of the earth for a whole month. “I heard from the grapevine that you have my boyfriend in here. Open up, and let me see him, or I’ll burn every strand of hair on that giant head of yours.”

 

“Is this how you treat your mentor after he grows old and sickly?” Seonghwa shuts the spellbook with an audible click. “My, my, Yeosang. The freedom has truly gotten to your head.”

 

“With all due respect,” Yeosang starts, and San wishes it weren’t daylight outside so he could fling himself out of the window and run as far as possible to avoid this conversation, “ _shut the fuck up_. Now, where’s San?”

 

Seonghwa pokes his head into the room. “Do you want me to send him into a demon realm? If you’re not okay with it, you don’t have to talk to him.”

 

Seonghwa always put on a show about how much he didn’t like San and his blood glasses, but his eyes are genuine when he asks. San thinks it’s been a long time coming, anyway, and pulls the blanket over his puncture wound and says, “I’m fine.”

 

But honestly, not even his false sense of bravado and his non-existent confidence could do anything for him when Yeosang steps into the room, pushing Seonghwa out and latching the door shut behind him. In the darkness of the room, his hair shines like a soft pink light. When their eyes meet, his eyes are completely grey, no pupils or anything, and he seems to freeze when he notices San.

 

San has dark circles the size of the half moon on the eleventh of every month in the lunar calendar under his eyes. His hair is mussed up from sleeping during daylight, his skin blanched an odd grey, and he knows be looks nothing like the boy he used to be.

 

“Oh, no,” he utters, finally, and San averts his eyes and sinks even deeper into his blankets, thinking this is exactly what I was afraid of, and the next thing he knows, Yeosang is prying his arms free, clutching onto his fingers and pulling him closer to get a closer look. “You’re hurt.”

 

“It’s just a cut,” San mumbles, when warm fingers brush against the bruise on his cheek. (It was French Toast, who’d scratched him after he’d tried to make a funny face at her.) Yeosang is still holding his hand.

 

“You’re okay?” Yeosang asks, and this time his free hand shifts to brush the hair out of his eyes, and when he’s satisfied that he can see San’s eyes, he rests his hand on San’s cheek and runs his thumb over the corner of his lips. It’s nice. It’s so nice that San regrets not having a heart to feel how the simple action used to have his pulse soaring. “They told me — They told me you were Turned last month, and that you were probably dead already.”

 

“I’m a vampire,” San blurts out, and averts his eyes when Yeosang’s thumb stills. It’s cold inside the loft, or maybe it’s just how he feels. “I can’t walk in the sun and and I don’t have any body heat or a heart anymore. Does that change anything?”

 

The fingers laced with his seem to squeeze even tighter. “Is that why you didn’t look for me? Because you thought I wouldn’t want anything to do with you just because you were a vampire?”

 

 _Yes_.

 

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to see me like _this_ ,” San makes a vague gesture at himself.

 

“San,” Yeosang starts, and when San looks back at him, his eyes are back to normal. “My father is a demon. Like, a soul-sucking, bitchy, questionable demon. He exists on this plane as a cloud of red smoke. He wails when he’s summoned and eats negative energy. And I can still see him once a month to let him know how I’m doing. Hell, I still call him dad.” The moonlight makes his eyes look even greyer than they are. “And if I can love a demon for who he is, then why would I love you any less just because you’re not completely human?”

 

And despite the situation, San grins and asks, “Your dad is a red cloud?”

 

Yeosang stares. “I just told you that I loved you and _that’s_ what you’re curious about?”

 

San pulls him up by the collar of his silk shirt (warlocks have expensive taste and San loves it) and kisses him, pulling him on top of himself like he’s a rag doll. Yeosang sighs against his mouth, untangling his hand from San’s and running it through his hair instead, and his eyes flutter shut when San runs a cold hand over the skin of his waist. It’s nice, even if the placement is awkward and they’re on Seonghwa’s sofa bed and French Toast is watching them viciously from the corner of the room.

 

The last rays of the sun shine in Yeosang’s hair when San pulls away and looks at him. He thinks he might have seen the last of the sunshine in his eyes, and mumbles, “Love you too,” and pulls him closer for a kiss again.

  


**Author's Note:**

> My twitter is thotael pls come say hi


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